When thinking of precision within the arts, it makes me wonder if it is possible to talk about precision in art. Since precision is relative, we need to know what it is relating to for us to make use of it. It depend on the expectations, the borders, and the caliper used for the measurement. How do you measure art? It is like measuring the width of the feeling of delight. I think what you can measure art with is ‘perception’. Perception is our caliper.
I have measured the exhibition by Ellen Røed to be delightfully precise!
Pictures from the opening at Ellen Røeds exhibition ‘Skyvelære’ at 3,14 i Bergen.
Fortidsminneforeningen Stranges Stiftelse 6th of June 2013.
‹‹The object becomes the plane, the light will be given to the darkness, the silence reflects sound.
Overgangen, was an exploration of the distance between black and white, between light and darkness. We closed ourselves in, in one of Bergen’s historic chambers and draped the windows.››
Mari Kvien Brunvoll, Lasse Årikstad, Lona Hansen, Kristin Tårnesvik, Steinar Bøyum, Piya Wanthang, Tolga Balci, Espen Sommer Eide and Anne Marthe Dyvi.
More about the event at BEKs pages…
“Overgangen” på Stranges stiftelse torsdag 5.juni.
Mari Kvien Brunvoll–Lasse Årikstad– Lona Hansen– Kristin Taarnesvik– Steinar Bøyum–Piya Wanthiang–Tolga Balci– Espen Sommer Eide – Anne Marthe Dyvi.
NON GRATA med gjester på Diverse Universe, Stiftelsen 3,14.
Anonymous Boh– Devilgirl– Virginian Bloom– Heliocabale– Geisha– Terrorist Shaman– Redhair
I implore your pity, You, the only one I love,
From the depth of the dark abyss where my heart fell.
It is a mournful universe with a leaden horizon,
Where horror and blasphemy swim in the night.
A sun without heat hovers about for six months,
And the other six months night covers the earth,
In a country more bare that the polar land,
no beasts, no streams, no green, no woods!
For there is no horror in the world which surpasses
The cold cruelty of that icy sun
And that vast night similar to the Chaos;
I envy the fate of the lowest animals
Who can sink into a stupid sleep,
Because the skein of time is so slow to unravel!
C. Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal.